Chapter 117
The accursed symbols of the One, etched upon the stabilizing obelisks and across the surface of their ritual, glowed with a dark radiance that struggled against the encroaching holy light, at times dimming briefly before flaring back to life with visible effort.
The prayers from the heavens did not attempt to destroy them through explosive force, but through cruel persistence.
It seeped in slowly, like tree roots searching for cracks in concrete, eroding conviction from within, and making every incantation feel like lifting a burden that grew heavier with each passing second.
Zhulumat Katamtum himself stood like a rock, yet behind his physical resolve, he felt a strange cosmic pull, as though the field of reality around him was being tilted toward some divine center of gravity, signaling that the rules of the game had changed.
"Breath Severance Attempt."
And before the dust from the first disruption could settle, before the erratic rhythm of their hearts could find a new cadence, the heavens once again proved that mercy was not a word within the divine lexicon.
The Angels, whose light had woven erratic patterns across the sky, gave no pause.
From their seemingly still and arrogant posture, swords drawn behind their backs like monuments of perfection, the next wave of attacks was unleashed.
Not one, but two layers of radiant rain descended almost simultaneously.
The second strike surged like a storm of burning arrows, followed by a third wave that was denser, more personal, as though each beam of light possessed its own eyes and intent to seek out the weakest points.
This relentless barrage shot downward in countless numbers, flooding the field of vision.
It split the night sky into thousands of glowing fragments, each leaving behind fleeting trails of light that scorched the retina.
Every strike carried a will deeper than mere energy; it bore the certainty of law, a verdict decreed since the dawn of time, and its execution now was nothing more than a cold and indisputable formality.
The sound it produced was not an explosion, but a sharp hiss like white-hot iron touching ice, a sound that froze the blood.
The impact was immediate and devastating.
The Anti-Tremor Line, serving as the first shield, was finally torn apart.
The layered force of the unending strikes exceeded the capacity of the Resonance Shields.
With a harrowing roar, several shields were ripped from their bearers' grasp, spinning through the air before slamming into the ground.
The soldiers behind them were pushed back en masse, their locked feet dragging deep grooves into the earth now fractured like glass, torn apart by the compounded pressure of metaphysical and physical force.
Their tight formation shattered, creating dangerous gaps that radiated the enemy's light.
Behind them, the Orbit Severance Line had no choice but to abandon their ideal formation.
Tactics and coordination had to be sacrificed for immediate survival.
Shaqar, Onigakure, Makakushi, and the others were forced to scatter, pulling their subordinates away from near-fatal impacts or sweeping arcs of light that cunningly targeted command units.
Their telepathic network now consisted only of frantic mental shouts to evade, to survive, losing all elements of offense or tactical control.
They were scattered, reduced to individual points struggling on their own within the storm.
At the center of everything, the Banner of Zhulumat was besieged.
The circle of Satanic Elites remained intact, but they were now surrounded by a thin haze of smoke from their strained exorcism devices.
The ritual torches flickered with unstable light, sometimes bright, sometimes dim, relentlessly battered by waves of sanctity.
They had no time to chant, to reverse the pressure, or even to draw a deep breath.
Every second was spent enduring, enduring, and enduring again.
Zhulumat Katamtum felt that circle tightening, not by enemies closing in, but by reality itself growing increasingly hostile to their existence.
The light and prayers from the heavens and the Holy Beings had fused into a landscape of total annihilation, an environment that actively rejected and sought to crush anything bearing the scent of rebellion, pressing from above, from the sides, even from within themselves.
"One step back is not betrayal, and ten steps are a promise that you will still breathe tomorrow."
Zhulumat Katamtum's voice finally erupted, cutting through the hissing light, the roaring prayers, and the deadly hum of sirens.
It was not a panicked shout, but an iron decree carved into reality.
His command was brief and absolute.
Retreat.
To his followers, that word was not an admission of defeat, but the highest tactical order, an acknowledgment that living to fight another day held greater value than dying buried in today's pride.
The instruction surged like a dark electric shock through the remnants of the command network, received by every captain and relayed to every soldier still standing.
And with remarkable discipline, amid the rain of light still trying to flay them, Zhulumat's forces began to withdraw.
The shattered Anti-Tremor Line attempted to regroup while stepping backward, raising their cracked shields as protection for those behind them.
The scattered Orbit Severance Line pulled back in measured motion, their eyes still vigilant, monitoring the sky and watching over the front ranks.
At the center, the Banner of Zhulumat moved as a dense unity, their exorcism devices still emitting a final field of resistance that allowed the retreat to remain orderly.
They retreated not in panic, but in a bitter rhythm of endurance, each step back a deliberate move away from the epicenter of destruction.
The final strikes of the Angels and the chorus of Holy Beings still slammed into the ground behind and beside them, carving small glowing craters as though the heavens refused to release its escaping prey.
However, with each step of retreat, the intensity diminished slightly, as though the field of holy influence had a geographical limit.
The distance between them and the border gate, along with the nauseating light of the Capital of Thalyssra, gradually increased.
Their steps were counted, precisely ten as instructed, before they finally stopped.
Then, there, on ground already beyond the most intense zone of destruction, they halted.
Their breaths were heavy, their bodies wounded, and their equipment smoked.
Zhulumat and his entire force could only remain silent, swallowing a bitterness more painful than blood in their mouths.
Their thirst for vengeance, for progress, for victory, remained unfulfilled.
They could only watch from afar, witnessing the spectacular chaos still unfolding at the border.
The flashes of divine strikes, the ocean of Holy Beings glowing like a living carpet of stars, and the sirens that never ceased.
It was an undeniable display of power, a warning etched in light and sound.
"Slowly purified."
The cleansing unfolded in a silence more terrifying than the roar of battle before it.
The holy lights that had once rained down upon them no longer attacked, but seeped slowly into the pores of the earth, slipping into the cracks of shattered stone, reaching every corner of the cursed city that for centuries had known only the breath of death.
The killing aura that clung so strongly to that environment, the defining trait that set their domain apart from the outside world, was torn apart little by little by the tireless persistence of light.
Like salt dissolving in water, like ink fading under bleach, the darkness that defined them diminished in the most agonizing way: slowly, inevitably, and without meaningful resistance.
In every inch of land that was purified, the ordinary soldiers of the Anti-Tremor Line and the Orbit Severance Line could feel an unfamiliar warmth that should not have existed there, a warmth that made their skin sting yet strangely comforted them, a contradiction of sensation that disturbed their deepest instincts as beings accustomed to the cold of the grave.
To be continued…